


Yes, For However Long We Last

by KeyWillow5



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutilation, grievous bodily harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 06:11:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyWillow5/pseuds/KeyWillow5
Summary: A badly tortured Ethan dies in Benji's arms.





	Yes, For However Long We Last

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.
> 
> There are some unpleasant depictions of grievous bodily harm and mutilation, plus a one-line reference to rape. DO NOT READ if you are not comfortable with these.

They can’t help Ethan, not in this ghastly underground compound half a world away from any civilization. Luther called in an air ambulance the minute they were sure of Ethan’s location, what for Benji isn’t cleared-headed enough to understand, because they can’t possibly wait that long. The thready heartbeat under his palm is a virtual death sentence no amount of accomplished “impossible” missions can commute.

 

The expanse of blood coating the interrogation room’s every surface haunts him still even though they’ve relocated Ethan to a stuffy boiler room with a soiled mattress, Benji tentatively gathering the broken frame in his arms as if that could lessen the pain, or revert the damage. Ilsa produced a piece of soaked rag some time later, gently dabbing at Ethan’s chin, where flakes of rusty dried blood stubbornly clung to the pale skin. Benji tries not to cry when they reveal an all too gaunt face, his overtaxed brain running in nauseating circles.

 

_They cut out his tongue. When he wouldn’t talk, the sick bastards cut out Ethan’s tongue. Is that why his cheeks look so hollow, or are days of starvation brutal enough to completely waste away a person’s rosy countenance?_

 

Benji suddenly realizes, horrified, that he can’t recall the precious, happy memories of the past any longer, as if grief were a merciless virus rewriting the pathways of his heart till nothing but burnt soot and ash remains. Frantically he searches for a single fragment to anchor himself with: Ethan draped across their sofa like an insouciant big cat; Ethan mischievously showing off a parlor trick; Ethan murmuring contentedly into his neck one cold wintry morning – anything – yet they shrivel and blow away, silent as a drop of salty tear, before his greedy trembling hand can so much as reach for them. _Hyperventilating, not good. No, don’t break down just yet. Ethan’s in your arms; don’t jolt him. He’s in pain – must be – the injuries – so many wounds – blood everywhere –_

 

_“Benjamin Dunn, are you willing to take Ethan Matthew Hunt as your lawfully wedded husband?”_

 

“Benji?” Ilsa’s soulful green eyes make him want to weep again. _Great, Ethan Hunt, you go and get yourself tortured within an inch of your life and just leave me here, shuddering and aching at every reminder that remotely resembles you. Today it’s a pair of emerald eyes; tomorrow I’ll bawl my lungs out over a damned cantaloupe._

 

Absurd how in despair every ridiculous inappropriate little thing merges together to make one humongous unintelligible blob. (See?) But Ethan always laughs at his jokes, no conditions attached. Always.

_Wake up, Ethan, everything’s okay. Several days in bed coupled with your adorable grumbling, you’ll be right as rain. Just – **deliver me from this nightmare**._

 

The illusion is so easily shattered by the immobile weight dragging him down, down, to drown, surrendering to the hopelessness of it all. Benji can scarce recognize it as Ethan’s body. Hideous contusions circle his wrists and ankles in a purple blaze, and his neck bears strangulation marks too familiar for Benji in the immediate days following Kashmir. A phantom surge of scorching breathlessness answers in his memory, and Benji has to swallow down bitter bile, involuntarily imagining – feeling – how Ethan must have clawed for oxygen without success.

 

Ethan’s chest and back are littered with cuts, lash marks and burn marks, some patches discolored and swollen with infection. But the most horrendous-looking damage was done to his legs. His knees are utterly shattered, bits of glistening bone fragments visible in the resultant bloody mess. As if that wasn’t enough to incapacitate him forever, or just for the twisted fun of it, the torturers severed his hamstring tendons too. The cuts look crude and sloppy, likely done by a blunt knife to prolong the agony.

 

_The culprits are dead_ , Benji repeats the words like an ineffective mantra, but the urge to make them pay and suffer keeps bubbling up. _Some agent you are, some husband. Too late when it most matters._

 

And the rape. The stale, sour smell of dried semen mixed with the metallic tang of blood clogs his throat.

 

“Benji.” _Oh, Ilsa_ , he vaguely registers. Ilsa was lovely in a pearl grey suit the day they tied the knot. That is the one day etched in his mind he’ll never forget.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he remembers answering too quickly, the word bumping awkwardly against the tail end of the question, but Ethan, ever the nimbler one, was already putting the ring on Benji’s finger with a barely contained flourish. He looked resplendent, shiny-eyed and impossibly young. Behind them Luther gave an undisguised snort. Good ol’ Luther, who’s got a weighty hand on Benji’s shoulder.

 

“Benji, listen. Ethan won’t make it; he’s just hurt too badly. The medical equipment’s all destroyed the minute we stormed the compound, and the copter’s an hour away. You with me, man?”

 

Benji can’t speak; he nods. It has the finality of an age-old sequoia tree falling down. The sound in his ears is deafening.

 

“Ethan is unconscious now,” Ilsa continues slowly, as if Benji can’t be expected to understand the English language, but maybe he really can’t. Gibberish, nonsense, not true, what they’re sprouting. Ah, but he knows better.

 

“It’ll be quiet, better than –” At that she stumbles, but recovers her composure admirably. Luther takes over the one-sided dialogue with grave care. “We’ve still got a syringe, you know. Maybe it could wake him up for a little while, but more probably it won’t matter a jolt. Ethan’s signs are bad.”

 

Luther leaves it at that. It’s his choice, isn’t it? His right, even, as a husband, to – what? Does he have the right to drag Ethan back to this painful reality, just to see one last time the precious life in those mesmerizing green eyes? Yet even as he closes his eyes and sucks in a lungful of moldy air, his hand reaches out to the needle clutched loosely in Ilsa’s fist. The urge to simply fall apart subsides in him ever so slightly.

 

He’ll take the chance, if only because he’ll regret it for the rest of his life otherwise. And Ethan, Ethan deserves to see his teammates by his side, not the scum of the earth that hurt him and maimed him. Ethan will never blame him for coming too late, Benji knows, though the wound in Benji will likely never heal.

 

Benji’s hand is remarkably steady when he plunges the needle in. He’s grateful for the comforting presence of Ilsa and Luther by his side.

 

There’s no dramatic intake of breath as Ethan comes around, eyelids peeling open with tremendous effort. _Don’t cry_ , Benji admonishes himself when he feels his upper lip wobble. He presses a chaste kiss to Ethan’s cracked lips as hot tears start rolling down. “Hey,” Benji croaks, “Ethan, you’re here with us now. We’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.” His whole body is trembling now, suppressed disbelief, pain and anger welling up in howling waves.

 

But then Ethan’s unfocused eyes seem to pick Benji out in a world of blurry lines, and he smiles slightly, with his moist eyes and an upward curve of his mouth. His broken right hand with painstaking tenderness brushes against Benji’s wedding band, the one they picked out together a lifetime ago, bickering just for the sake of it, dazzled by how happy they could get.

 

“ _I love you_ ,” Ethan says, though he can’t utter a word.

 

And Benji, sobbing, answers over and over again, “I love you too,” as the beautiful green orbs start to lose their brilliant luster.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.
> 
> I mean it.
> 
> In theory, patients with critical conditions can’t be revived easily, let alone with one dose of medication. But let’s say IMF has some super effective drugs for the (meager) plot’s sake.
> 
> Comments and corrections are very welcome!


End file.
